“Don’t—” I start, but she’s already licked it off. I sigh. “Well, at least your immune system is getting a workout.”
While my daughter wipes down her notepads—using way too many paper towels—I clean the backpack as best as I can without a tumble in the washer and throw her lunchbox inside.
I zip it up and walk back into the living room, my gaze snagging on the framed photo at the end of the wall lineup. Daniel, in his firefighter uniform, helmet tucked under one arm while he holds a four-year-old Penny with the other as they stand in front of a fiery-red firetruck. His dazzling, lopsided smile shines back at me across the four years he’s been gone. That’s the last picture I have of them together. My heart splinters against my ribcage, pounding like a fist on a locked door. It searches for a handle that isn’t there. An escape that never comes. I rub at the spot over my left breast where I tattooed Daniel’s name after he passed, missing him more than ever.
Mornings were his specialty. He’d surprise us with chocolate chip pancakes arranged into smiley faces for Penny. Coffee waiting for me when I dragged myself out of bed after a late hospital shift. He’d put my sunglasses next to my keys, so I wouldn’t forget them and squint the entire drive to work. The memories hit with such force that I have to grip the couch to steady myself.
When was the last time I made pancakes? Not those frozen, chewable impostors that taste like cardboard, but real ones, from scratch? I can’t remember. Another item on the long list of my parental failures.
Daniel would have never let weeks go by without a special breakfast treat. He would’ve remembered to check the backpack for forgotten chocolate bars. Even if he died before Penny started grade school, I’m sure he would’ve been on top of it. Her dad would have known how to do the hair thing without causing a national incident.
“Mom, we’re gonna be late.” Penny’s voice jolts me back to our smoke-scented apartment and the menace of impending LA traffic.
“Shoes,” I say, pointing to her sock-clad feet.
She hops around like a tipsy flamingo as she jams her feet into sneakers, and I scoop my bag and keys.
Three minutes later, we’re in the car. I honk along with the rest of the city’s frustrated drivers as I weave through side streets toward Penny’s school. My daughter sits in the back, unruffled despite our morning hurricane, chewing her breakfast as she hums one of Dorian’s songs—my sister’s rockstar boyfriend has become her male role model. And while I’m glad we finally have another man in the family, I’m also aware that a cool uncle will never replace a father.
We screech into the drop-off lane with a minute to spare before the late bell. Penny unbuckles herself, grabs her backpack, and leans forward to plant a quick kiss on my cheek.
“Bye, Mom. Love you!”
“Love you too, honey. Have a great—” But she’s already halfway out the car. “—day.”
Penny darts toward the entrance, ponytail swinging, shirt still inside-out, her backpack bouncing against her slight frame. She turns back once to wave, and I’m struck by how much she resembles Daniel. It’s the angle of her smile, the way her nose crinkles.
Another frenzied parent honks behind me, ripping me out of the grief spiral I was about to drop into. I drive on, mouthing “sorry” at them through the rearview mirror.
As I merge back into traffic, I catalog our morning’s victories and defeats: toaster, murdered. Coffee, unmade. One chocolate bar casualty. Breakfast… do oatmeal muffins consumed in the car count? But Penny made it to school before the final bell. In the single-parenting Olympics, I’d score a solid 5.3 out of 10—points deducted for technical execution, but a bonus awarded for difficulty. It’s only August, the second week back to school. We’ll get the hang of it.
By the time I make it to the hospital twenty minutes later, I’ve stopped at a drive-through for the saddest excuse for coffee known to humankind and transitioned into work mode. The moment I step through the staff entrance of the ER, I’m no longer Struggling Single Mom Lily. I’m Practicing Nurse Finnigan—competent, unshakeable, if not a little bleary-eyed, but nothing quality caffeine can’t fix.
“Morning, Lily,” our triage nurse calls as I stride toward the locker room. “We saved you the good stethoscope.”
“You’re a saint, Mark,” I reply, looping it around my neck. “What’s the damage today?”
“Two broken bones, one stomach bug with impressive projectile capabilities, and a guy with severe hemorrhoids.”
“Please tell me the rectal exam is already assigned.”
Mark winks. “Gave it to Dr. Maddox.”
I beam back because nurses have long memories, and nothing screams payback more than assigning bodily extractions to residents who treat us like waitstaff.
The morning passes in the choreographed madness that defines emergency medicine. The kind of entropy I’m good at, unlike the domestic variety. Blood, I can deal with. Vomit, no problem. Hypochondriacs convinced their seasonal allergies are bubonic plague? Piece of cake. It’s the emotional stuff, the photos of dead husbands and the guilt about pancakes, that leaves me floundering.
During my lunch break, I find a quiet corner in the cafeteria and call Josie to confirm Penny’s weekend plans. My sister answers on the third ring.
“If you’re calling to make sure Auntie JoJo’s special babysitting services are a go, the answer is yes. Dorian’s planning a movie night with enough sweets to ensure she never sleeps again.”
“Hello to you, too,” I reply, unwrapping my turkey sandwich. “I won’t say a word about the excess sugar. But don’t come crying when she’s duct-taping you to the couch.”
“I’ll take tape over unfiltered child honesty any day. Dorian’s still recovering from her last review.”
“Why? Penny was singing his new song in the car this morning.”
“Really?” Josie snorts. “She told Dorian his new album is ‘trying too hard to be edgy’ and then asked if he was having a midlife crisis.”
